Poetry

Behind Invisible Bars

Standing on top of this terrific terrace, I can now see it all:
The park laden with kids gallivanting around in glee,
A fast food joint brimming with tentative teenagers
And middle-aged men in the pub, making merrier with each drink;
All drunk in perpetual pleasure, yet in reality
Behind invisible bars made of candy canes.

Rigged with firmware that mandates having fun
As opposed to living life of truth and balance,
It saddens me to say, in contemporary society
The rites of passage into adulthood
Is rather a gruelling gauntlet run
That veers off course into the ravines.

The toddler with her teddy, although nascent
In her mind is, but at the last frontiers of innocence.
She lived and knew nothing lesser than
Pure untainted truth when she was merely an infant;
But just as a flawless piece of art kept to smog
With time, fades into mere splotches of paint,
The girl's mind too is defiled by a steady
dose of blatant blasphemy, courtesy of society.

Even as she appears snappy and glamorous,
A peek inside her veil reveals the adolescent lass to be
A tempestuous cocktail of incessant insecurities,
A mind so fickle to even the most mercurial whims
And a bandaged-up heart that's more lost
than a polar bear who chanced upon the Sahara.

Probably the smuggest subject, the conceited man,
With an Opulent villa to his name and a receding hairline that follows,
Has his reasons to be continually complacent, complete
With a secure but stagnant source of income.
Locking himself up in a golden cage, he regards not
The inevitable reaper approaching in the distance.

It is said the devil does his darkest deeds
When the mortals' ignorance is at its highest.
As the perfidiously perfect illusion is the one
We don't know we are living in right now;
Similar is the illusion of perennial pleasure,
The fruits of tossing the rest of the emotions into oblivion.

Every emotion be given apt reverence;
Every emotion don a gustatory equivalence.
If happy is to sweet as sad is to sour
And rage be called spicy as much as despair is bitter;
Life cannot be lived in sheer pursuit of pleasure
As much as how a single flavour alone cannot constitute a cuisine.